


Kisses and Blood

by rosebudbois



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt, just boys being boys, kissing and stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 04:29:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebudbois/pseuds/rosebudbois
Summary: prompt: 'it would be cool a canonverse au but with artist!baz that has a secret sketch notebook where he draws simon all over it?? and simon doesn't know baz could draw, so he finds baz's secret notebook one day and confronts him about it'





	Kisses and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to @neck-mole and @mintaero for being beautiful betas!!

**SIMON**  
  
He can’t possibly believe that I don’t know about the notebook. After all, it’s only natural to become curious when your sworn enemy is so secretive about something, especially a brown, leather book that he never lets out of his sight. It’s been around for as long as I can remember, though I wasn’t too worried about it during our first few years at Watford. It only became a concern for me when he started to write in it while I was around.  
  
I’ve never actually seen him write in it, but I’ve heard him. It’s always late at night, when he thinks that I’m asleep, that he pulls it out. He’ll cast **Let there be light** before I hear him scribble in it furiously, like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. On nights when he must be feeling extra edgy, he lights a flame in his free hand instead.  
  
Tonight happens to be one of those nights. He’s gotten back from the Catacombs later than usual, and even though I can’t look at him—  well, I suppose _can_ look at him, but I don’t want him to know I’m still awake—I can almost feel him fuming from where he’s now lying on his bed, only an arm’s length away, but even that short a distance is one I wouldn’t breach.

Shuffling around to face his side of the room, I crack open an eye, and he looks just as frantic as he sounds. He pulls out his notebook, rips it open so carelessly I’m surprised it doesn’t fall apart in his hands, and begins scribbling in it with as much intent as always.

His hair is pulled up into a messy bun, his brows tightly knitted together. He’s my enemy, a _vampire,_ but the way the moonlight is hitting his face makes him look vulnerable. Makes him look human.

I snap my eyes shut. _You hate him_ , I think to myself, repeating it in my head like a mantra. _He’s your enemy and he’s a vampire. You hate him._ But the more I think it, and the more I try to convince myself that he’s over there plotting my downfall, the more false it starts to feel.

I slowly open my eyes again, watching him without giving myself away. He’s still scribbling, but starting to look more relaxed. From this angle, I can’t make out what he’s writing. I can  only see the fire in his palm; the flames licking too close to his skin for me to be comfortable

  
I want to yell at him; remind him that he’s flammable. Only because if he goes up in flames, so do I, and most likely the entirety of Mummers House along with us. I don’t (or rather, _can’t_ ) yell at him though, so I just hope that the cold breeze from the open window blows it out.

It won’t. Of course it won’t. He’s a powerful mage, I’m sure he can manage to keep the fire from going out if that’s what he wants

  
I wonder what he’s writing. My initial thought was that he’s plotting; devising ways to kill me or to stop the Mage, but I’m not so sure about that anymore. The anger that so often hardens his face is gone. He just looks sad.

Maybe he’s writing poems. I can’t even entertain that thought long enough to wonder what he would be writing poems about. I let out a short laugh as soon as it pops into my head, quickly covering the noise with a cough.

  
I’m too late. His head snaps in my direction almost as quickly as I shut my eyes. A few long seconds pass where I’m certain he’s going to call me out. Instead, I hear him slam the notebook shut, and climb under his covers.

I sneak a glance when I think the coast is clear, and see his back is now to me. The tattered corner of his book is sticking out from under his pillow.

  
I need to get my hands on that fucking notebook.  
  
Theoretically, it shouldn’t be so hard. It’s a tiny little thing, but the problem is Baz brings it _everywhere_. Ever since I began to keep track of when he had it (fifth year), I haven’t seen him without it for one second. During meals, he stuffs it in the back pocket of his trousers. On the days he sits with his back to me—those days are very rare, I’ve noticed he prefers to always keep me in his line of vision—I watch him run his fingers over the tattered edges, checking that it’s safe.

  
Before class, he’ll shove it deep in his bag. He rarely pulls it out during the day, probably because he’s afraid that someone will question him about it, but I make note of the way he skims his hand across it when he reaches for other books.  
  
Then there’s those rare times we’re in our room together, when he’s sitting at his desk, and he’ll shove it under his thighs, pressing it against the chair. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the notebook would disintegrate from the force he puts on it.  
  
Hell, he even brings the bloody thing to the bathroom with him.  
  
It seems obsessive to me, the way he’s always worrying the end of the cord through his fingers, rolling it around and causing it to fade into a lighter brown. When he does lose it, he goes absolutely mental. He always blames me for it, of course; those are the only times I wish he had been rightly accusing me of stealing his stuff.

  
But right now my eyes are heavy from exhaustion, so I decide to let my worries about the book return tomorrow. They always do. I can’t steal it when I don’t have all my wits about me anyway.  
  
***  
  
I don’t expect to be woken up by the sound of a door slamming, but Baz is full of surprises. He’s up before me today, and I hear the telltale squeak of the shower as he turns it on.

  
What I see causes me to wake right the fuck up. Baz just got in the shower, but still peeking out from under his pillow just like it had been last night is the unmistakable worn leather of the notebook.  
  
Now is my chance, and I don’t waste one second of it.  
  
I sit up and swing my legs around so that I’m sitting on the edge of my bed. I can practically hear Penny nagging me for every little part of this: the invasion of privacy, the obsessing-over-Baz. None of this would be Penny approved. But I don’t have time to formulate a plan, not when my knees are inches from Baz’s bed, the notebook sitting _right there_.

Not giving a single thought to the possible consequences, I reach across the small space, and grab the book from its hiding spot.

  
I’m finally holding it in my hands, and it’s honestly really cool up close. Embossed on the front is the Pitch family crest, and I turn it to see flames licking up the spine. Seems like the level of drama that Baz would throw into something so simple as a notebook.  
  
I need to stop ogling it; Baz is in the shower, but he won’t be in there forever. I quickly unwrap the cord, feeling ready to open the notebook and finally know what Baz has been plotting. Except when I open to the first page, it’s not anywhere near what I could have imagined.  
  
On the first page is a drawing of Paddington Bear. It looks like it was drawn by a child, and my thoughts are confirmed when I see the date in the top right corner. It’s from our first year at Watford.  
  
So this is what Baz has been doing in his mysterious notebook. I’m a little disappointed that it’s not some huge plot, but that doesn’t kill my curiosity. I continue to flip through the pages, feeling the need to understand why he’s been so secretive about it, considering it’s not full of homicide plans.  
  
The first few years are quite boring. He wasn’t a good artist at the time, so they’re all drawings of cartoon characters and mythical creatures. Over time, though, I can see him start to improve.  
  
After such mundanity, I’m in no way prepared for what I see when I turn the page to the first drawing of fifth year. It’s of me.  
  
Up until [this one](http://springroove.tumblr.com/post/151411633134/more-simon-baz-because-i-have-so-many-feelings), he hadn’t bothered to color them. But there I am, in my Watford sweater, laughing at seemingly nothing. I bring the page closer to my face, noticing that he’s placed all my moles correctly.

What the fuck?  
  
Flipping through his sketches from fifth year becomes almost painful. Every single one is of me, and there are some pages crammed full of little doodles. Some even have little captions where I’m saying dumb stuff.(He really thinks I’m the biggest idiot, doesn’t he?  
  
With all these drawings of myself, I’m torn between being utterly creeped out, or flattered with how well he draws me. He makes me look handsome. And happy. Do I really look like that to him?  
  
When I flip to the last drawing from fifth year, I have to do a double take at the page.  
  
I’m not sure what to think. It’s... honestly horrifying? [This one’s](http://lnmei.tumblr.com/post/149209845009/those-were-my-fifth-year-fantasies-kisses-and) got a little color though, and it’s the first time he’s drawn himself. I’ll give him that. Even if the most color that it has is that of blood.  
  
There are three drawings, one on top of the other. I’m not too bothered about the middle one—the one where we’re kissing. That’s something I didn’t know I’d ever be thinking, but I stop thinking it when I feel heat rush to my face. I refuse to blush as much as I am in Baz’s drawing.  
  
It’s really the other drawings that concern me. He’s biting my neck in the first one and there’s blood all over us. Surprisingly though, it’s not the vampire part of it that sets me on edge; it’s most definitely the fact that he drew himself _biting_ me. He drew himself killing me. (Or Turning me. I’m not really sure how vampirism works.)

  
I’ve always known he’s disturbed, but _fuck_ , is this what he thinks about?    
  
The last drawing is the most disturbing. The one where I’m stabbing him. There’s a caption underneath it which reads, _fifth year fantasies: kisses and blood and Snow ridding the world of me._  
  
I try not to dwell on it, taking a deep breath and after a minute, moving on.  
  
Thankfully, sixth and seventh year have no more angsty, bloody drawings. I’m not sure I could handle another one of those anyway.  
  
There are only two drawings so far in this year, eighth year. The first is a portrait of his mother. I only know it’s her because she’s the same woman in the painting in the Mage’s office—the one that’s spelled to the wall, or else I’m sure he would’ve had it removed by now. He’s not huge on respect when it comes to the Pitch family.

  
Before I flip the page, I almost don’t notice the small (and very much improved since first year) Paddington Bear in the corner.  
  
The last drawing is, as expected at this point, is another one of me. My breath hitches when I catch the date. So _this_ is what he was doing last night. And here I was, thinking he was devising ways to kill me.  
  
Clearly something is broken in my head because I seem to have forgotten the usual length that Baz takes in his showers—not that I normally keep track of that, not at all. I must really be mentally gone because I don’t hear the sound of the door opening, nor do I feel the warmth that it lets out. It’s only the creaking of Baz’s weight on the floorboards that jerks me out of my trance, and only now do I realize I’m royally fucked.  
  
I can feel his anger from here, rolling off him in waves. In a few short strides, he’s up in my space and ripping the book from my hands. I flinch away from him, my eyes squeezing shut.  
  
This is it. Baz is going to murder me; rip my throat out and throw my bloodless body to the merwolves. The Anathema is going to kick him out, almost completely naked—save for the towel wrapped around his waist, and the black pants that I can see the band of. (He never comes out of the shower until he’s fully dressed. He must’ve finally noticed he’d forgotten his book.)  
  
After a minute, when he still hasn’t murdered me, I finally open my eyes and look at him. He’s closed the book and is holding it raised above his head, almost like he’s going to whack me with it. It reminds me of when I was at the homes as a boy. When the older kids would steal my toys from me, dangling them above their heads to taunt me.

Refusing to feel vulnerable like I used to, I stand at my full height; which is still shorter than Baz, but it’s the best I can do. I get up into his space, just as he did to me, threatening through my stare for him to do something. I don’t think I’d mind if he decked me in the face, as long as it got him booted out of the room and away from Watford.

It’s only when I look closer that I see he’s shaking, and the intensity I was holding myself with starts to crumble. I can handle Baz when he’s being a dick, but this? Baz showing actual emotion? Yeah, that I’m not so sure about.

  
“What the absolute _fuck_ are you doing, Snow.” He finally forces out through clenched teeth.  
  
“You left it under your pillow.” I swallow and clench my fists, angry at how weak my voice sounds.  
  
He brings down the hand that’s in the air, dropping the book on his bed. “Curiosity doesn’t give you a right to go through my personal stuff. How would you like it if I went through your shit, you insensitive moron?” He snaps.  
  
He must’ve gone completely mad, because all of the sudden he’s at my desk, yanking open the drawers. Without warning, he starts grabbing handfuls of stuff and throwing it to the floor in fluid motions. He’s flaming again, just this time not literally.  
  
“Baz! What the hell!” I run over to him and put my hands out to try to stop him. There’s not much I can do, not unless I want to be in the line of fire. I’m not particularly interested in being launched out the window today. I draw my hands away from him and stand there helplessly while he tears apart my desk.

  
I let him wear himself out. He runs out of stuff pretty quickly anyway; I don’t have many belongings. Now though, he’s just standing there, fists clenched at his side and avoiding my concerned gaze.

  
“Baz?” I whisper, tentatively reaching my hand out to touch his shoulder. He flinches, but doesn’t move away.  
  
He loosens his fists and brings them to his face, splaying them out over it. He mumbles something from behind them.  
  
“What was that?” I whisper again, afraid that I’ll startle him if I raise my voice.

  
He sighs and pulls his hands away from his face, letting them hang at his sides. Then, “How much did you see?” he asks, his icy edge melted a little.  
  
With Baz staring at me, I’m regretting the hand on his shoulder. I awkwardly pull it away. Seeing how embarrassed he is about this entire situation almost makes me not want to answer his question. Almost.  
  
“All of them.”  
  
He groans loudly at that, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. When he comes back out from behind it, though, he’s back to the Baz I know. How he can switch emotions as quickly as he does is a mystery to me. And quite terrifying, if I’m being honest.

  
His signature cocky Baz look is in place: lips pulled into a smirk, and left eyebrow arched impossibly high.

  
He leans in close, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me, like he did in that fifth year drawing. Or bite me, that would make more sense given the situation. I’m only thinking of him kissing me because the drawing is so fresh in my mind, that’s all.

He keeps going though, maneuvering until his lips are almost touching my ear; the hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the contact. Then, he whispers, “If you tell a single person about this, I will scoop out your eyeballs and eat them for dinner while you scream in agony. Then, I’ll feed you to the merwolves. They like their food best live and kicking.”

He pulls away, still smirking as I regain my composure, trying to hide the effect he has on me. I convince myself it’s because of the threat, not how close he still is to me.

Clearing my throat so my voice doesn’t come out as weak as I feel, I say, “You wouldn’t do that. By the way,” I make a show of looking down his still unclothed body, “Nice pants.”

I turn away from him and walk to the bathroom, trying to act cool, but mentally cursing myself for what I said. Nice pants? Really? That’s well gay, pointing out another blokes pants.

Baz must be thinking the same thing, because he speaks up from behind me, “Good one, Snow. You really know how to frighten the enemy.”

Instead of gracing him with an answer, I just roll my eyes Penny style, and slam the bathroom door behind me.

Once I’m safe behind the door, I start to change into my uniform. Definitely not thinking about all the drawings I just saw. Especially not the one where Baz drew us kissing. And I don’t wonder if he still wants to do that.

**BAZ**

Oh fuck. There is so much for me to process right now, but the only words coming to mind are _oh fuck_.

I’m absolutely, royally fucked.

I had been so careful. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by since first fucking year that I haven’t had that book on person—besides, of course, when I lost it. Even when I did lose it on occasion, it never ended up being Snow’s doing.

Snow saw every single drawing, and I cringe at that thought. He must think I’m fucking mental. Crowley, even I’m not afraid to admit that there’s some weird stuff in there.

I walk over to my bed, avoiding all the shit on the floor from my temper tantrum, and flop face down on the covers, allowing the pity party to ensue.

During my moment of reflection on this bed, I try hard not to think about Simon’s comment, I really do, but I can’t stop it. When he lowered his gaze down my chest, I thought I was going to die. But when he commented on my _pants_ , I think I might have.

I check my pulse just to be sure, then sigh at how unnecessarily dramatic I am. No wonder Simon hates me. Speaking of the idiot, he’s still in the bathroom, but he’ll be out shortly. Not that I keep track of how long he takes in the morning, but I do need to leave. The last thing I need right now is another uncomfortable confrontation.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper, not bothering to be in uniform. It is the weekend after all. As I head out, I grab my coat from the hook on the wall, slamming the door louder than usual so Simon knows I’m gone.

The Catacombs is where I go to get away, and I need it now more than anything. I hunted just last night, so it’ll be nice to go down there and just sit for a change. Not having to worry about catching any rats.

It’s still early enough for there not to be many students milling about, making it easy for me to slip into the chapel unnoticed. It’s usually dead empty in here, so I don’t have to worry about being seen.

The doors to the Catacombs open for me as they always have, and I begin my descent into the chilling depths. It’s as creepy as ever. No sunlight reaches into the Catacombs, so I have to rely on the flame in my hands and my memory.

I got lost the first time I was down here. Father had told me to find food in the Catacombs; that was the only time we’d talked about me and the whole “being a vampire” situation . That was eight years ago.

Anyway, I got lost, and I was certain that I was never going to make it out again. Just when I had lost all hope of ever returning to my warm bed though, I found my mother’s tomb. I stayed with her for a while, no longer afraid that I wouldn’t find my way out.

Ever since then, I’ve made it my goal to learn this place like the back of my hand, and I finally have. I don’t even have to pay attention to where I’m going, I just let muscle memory take me. Which it does now, right back to my mother’s tomb.

I sit against the stone wall and reach into a hole to my left, pulling out a bottle of shitty wine that I hid in there a few months back. (It was the only one I could get away with stealing from home.) I contemplate the wine—rereading the label, rolling it back and forth on the floor—but I don’t end up drinking it. As much as I’d love to, it’s probably 7 in the fucking morning by now, and I don’t hate myself that much.

Instead, I just stay there with my back to the wall. It’s cold as ever, but I’m not bothered by it.

The damned notebook is in my pocket, and I take it out. Trying to see it through Snow’s eyes, I flip through my drawings, critiquing each one. Regretting others.

I drop the book on the floor next to me, letting it lay there forgotten while I allow my mind to wander to other things, none of which are particularly happy. How joyful can things get when you’re sitting in the same room as your dead mother?

It looks to be sometime in the afternoon when I leave the Catacombs. I’ve missed breakfast and lunch, and I’m starving. Luckily that won’t be an issue, what with Cook Pritchard on my good side.

Fortunately, she’s still in the kitchen; preparing for dinner by the looks of it. She frowns when she sees me—I still haven’t fully recovered from my time spent with the numpties.

“Now where were you this morning? Don't think I wouldn't notice.” She tuts, one hand on her hip.

“I wasn’t feeling well, thought I’d stay in bed.” Technically, I’m not wrong. Snow seeing everything I drew made me feel sick to my stomach. 

Turning back to her work, she continues to chop vegetables, “So, what brings you here? Some snacks?”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. A sandwich maybe?”

“Only for you, Basil.” She opens the fridge, taking out cheese and two different kinds of meat, “You need some meat on those bones, kid! If I didn't know any better, I would've thought you're the walking dead!”

She keeps chatting while she puts my sandwich together; mostly scolding me for not taking better care of myself.

“Now,” she starts, “If I don't see you at dinner tonight, don't be surprised when I show up in your room. I’ll make sure you stay fed if it's the last thing I do!” She shoves a paper plate into my hands—it’s packed with a sandwich, salt and vinegar crisps, and vegetables I won’t be eating.

“Only boys can get into my room.”

“Oh hon, I wouldn't be so sure about that. Now go off and enjoy the rest of your weekend, Basil!” She says, ruffling my hair as she shoos me out the door.

I usually eat in the room when Snow isn’t there, but I don’t think I can go back there. Not yet. I need more time to think, to be by myself, and I can’t do that with Snow breathing down my neck.

That’s how I find myself at the football pitch, eating my sandwich and watching the boys practice. Coach Mac kicked me off the team, and I’m a little upset about that, but I don’t miss it all that much. Sure, it was a good way to release all my pent up energy, but I have Snow to tease in place of that.

Practice ends sooner than usual when it starts to rain. And I mean really rain. I can barely see two feet in front of me as I hurry back to Mummers, finally giving in to the confrontation that’s been inevitable ever since Snow opened that book.

Except when I climb the stairs to our room and open the door, expecting to met with Snow—he’s usually here around this time, working on homework—but now he’s nowhere to be found.

**SIMON**

One might say that it’s best to face your problems head on, not put them off while the situation gets worse. Me? I’m a firm believer in avoiding until the end. Which is why I’m currently hiding inside my wardrobe.

I’ll admit, it’s not an ideal position to be in, but it’s better than having to talk to Baz. When the rain started, I knew that he’d be back, and hearing him stomping up the stairs made me panic, so I did the first thing I could think of and crammed myself in the nearest place possible.

But it’s fine. The storm will pass, Baz will leave, and I’ll be out of here in no time.

All I can do now is just be thankful that I’m here in the wardrobe, rather than out in the room with Baz. He’s the last person I want to talk to at the moment. And it’s _not_ because I can’t stop thinking about kissing him. I mean, the drawing where I was kissing him.

Thirty minutes in, this is proving to be much more difficult than I had anticipated. It started with the singing.

At first it was just a quiet humming, muffled by the thick doors and walls of the closet, but it soon turned into quiet singing. Baz, singing a song I don’t recognize—I don’t think it’s a Normal song—because he thinks I’m not in the room.

A good artist and a good singer? Fuck Baz for being perfect at everything. Perfect in the most annoying way possible, of course.

An hour in, and I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. The closet is cramped, the storm doesn’t sound like it’s letting up, and I have to take a piss. Baz hasn’t made much noise since he stopped singing, but I know he’s still here.

I guess I could slip out when I hear him go into the bathroom. Yeah, I can do that. So, I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait some more.

And finally, I hear a door—I can only hope it’s to the bathroom—open. I stand up slowly, unfolding and stretching my cramped legs, then push open the door.

Oh, lovely. Baz is standing in the middle of the room, staring at me.

“I thought you were in the bathroom.” I say, dumbly.

“Did you just come out of the closet?” He asks.

Ignoring the implications of ‘coming out of the closet’, I nod, and reach up to tug at my curls.

“Crowley, Snow. How long have you been in there?” Baz sneers. I’m convinced that’s just his natural expression. It’s unsettling.

“About an hour.” I drop my hand, fidgeting with the hem of my jumper instead.

Baz just lets out a breathy laugh, dragging his hand over his mouth and shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. And might I ask what you were doing in the closet?”

He knows what I was doing, and there’s no point in trying to hide it.

“Hiding. From you.” He opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off, “As much as I’d love to hear whatever you have to say, I’m about to piss my pants. Back in a minute.” I rush past him to the bathroom, not giving him a chance to respond.

As much as I would love to stay forever behind the safety of the bathroom door, avoiding Baz once has gotten me nowhere. Telling myself that he’s the one who should embarrassed about this, not me, I piss and then splash some cold water on my face. It helps cool me down, if only a little bit.

With as much courage as I can muster, I step out into the room to face Baz. He’s sitting on the end of his bed now, facing the wardrobe that I was in only five minutes ago.

I break the silence before it’s even begun, “Why do you have so many drawings of me in your book?”

He doesn’t respond, just turns his head to look at me. Stepping closer into his personal space, I try again, more urgent this time. “Why did you draw them?”

Finally, he flicks his gaze to my eyes, staring at me intently. It takes everything in me to not look away. His hair is hanging in his face; he brushes it back with his fingers before speaking.

“You should really be thanking me, Snow. I’m only doing you a favor.” He smirks, “When I finally kill you, I’m sure your fans will be quick to commission a statue of the Chosen One. It’d be hard to build a statue when the only reference is a rotting body, I’m only providing reference.”

Does he really think I’m that stupid? Looks like I’m going to have bring up the drawing I desperately do not want to. It’s hard enough trying not to think about it, now I have to _talk_ about it with Baz.

“Providing reference for a statue of me kissing a bloke?” Baz’s smirk disappears at that, quickly replaced by a glare . He looks vaguely embarrassed, and is that a blush I see? I didn’t know vampires—or Baz, for the matter—could blush.

He sputters at first, clearly unsure of how he’s supposed to respond to that. Seems I’ve caught him completely off guard; he must not have thought I’d bring up that drawing.

Just when I think he’s going to give up, break the Anathema or storm off the Catacombs, he drops his hands onto his lap, and looks as if he’s given up.

“Snow,” he sighs, “Have you really not stopped to think about what those drawings of you mean? Do you seriously think I’m drawing you for a part of some plot?”

Guess he has given up, then. Any amount of smugness is gone from his face, and he’s just looking at me like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“So you didn’t draw them because you were plotting?” I tug at my curls again, harder than before, not ready for what he’s about to say.

“Crowley, Snow. You’re a complete idiot, you know that?” My fingers tighten in my hair, “I drew all of those because I—” He exhales jaggedly, “—like you.”

His words hang in the air between us, and I do my best to dissipate the awkwardness.

Laughing awkwardly, I say, “But that was just in fifth year, right? You haven’t drawn anything like… _that_ since then.”

Now’s his chance to deny anything, it’d make this all so much easier. I have no problem with Baz being gay—hell, I’m not sure I’m straight myself—but Baz _liking_ me? I’m not sure what I’d do with that information. Especially since I may like him back.

There, I finally admitted it. It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about it ever since I looked in that book. Thinking about kissing him, if we’re being specific. But to have Baz reciprocate those feelings? Where would we go from there?

Seems that Baz doesn’t care about that, though, because he goes ahead and says it anyway.

“I like you now, too. Not just fifth year. I’ve liked—Crowley, _loved_ , even—you _since_ fifth year.”

He doesn’t look away from me, just maintains eye contact with a bored expression on his face.

“Erm, well, I think I may like you too?” He perks up at that, but still looks skeptical. “I only noticed it recently, really. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you since that fucking drawing.” I laugh nervously, hoping that I’m not being too forward.

My hand is still in my hair, and I let it fall, only for Baz to catch it. I didn’t notice just how close I had gotten to him earlier.

His hand is warmer than I had expected, but still cold. He adjusts his grip so that his fingers are laced through mine, and I feel my face flush at the gesture. I haven’t had my hand held since Agatha, and her hands could never calm the heat of my own; not like Baz’s can.

“I- uh…” I start. But before I can finish, Baz is using his grip on my hand to pull me down to him.

His lips are warmer than his hands, and it feels really, really nice. It’s not the best kiss—our hands are laced together awkwardly, and I have to quickly brace myself on the bed so I don’t crush him—but it’s better than I had imagined it would be.

It’s softer. I always thought kissing him would be like fighting, but he’s running his fingers carefully through my hair, trailing his hand down my side to pull me closer by my hip. How could I ever think he’d be anything but gentle?  

How long we kiss like this, I’m not sure, but I’m panting when we finally break apart. I rest my forehead against his, playing with the hem of his shirt, and pulling my hand out of his to reach up to his hair.

Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, I don’t fight back the smile breaking out on my face. Then I whisper, almost into Baz’s mouth because of our proximity, “You taste like salt and vinegar crisps.”

He rolls his eyes, “I take back everything I said. Those drawings were all one huge plot to bring your fall”

“Oh, I’m falling alright.” I say, pushing Baz onto the bed and allowing him to take me down with him.

 _Falling in love._ I think, before bringing my mouth to his once again.


End file.
